Just like how there are rogue ninjas wandering without a home, there exists another kind of drifter—
the ronin.
Once, they were samurai serving under the daimyō, fighting and killing for honor. But with the end of the Warring States Period came the end of the samurai era.
The rise of the Five Great Villages and the Five Great Nations marked the beginning of the ninja's age.
Back then, during the Warring States Period, ninja clans gathered in small groups and sold their blades to any who could pay, competing and clashing fiercely with one another. Samurai, too, pledged themselves to daimyō, serving as both their swords and the enforcers who upheld their rule.
But once the Hidden Villages were established, the daimyō began relying on shinobi to wage their wars. On the battlefield, samurai were abandoned. Wars were no longer decided by the clash of armored men, but by the power of ninja.
This stripped samurai of their greatest purpose. With no wars to fight, countless lower-ranked samurai were left unemployed.
The situation reached its peak during the First Ninja War.
After the death of Senju Hashirama, the First Hokage, the fragile peace among the Five Villages collapsed. The remaining villages turned their sights toward Konoha, lusting after its land, resources, and power. The First Ninja War erupted, claiming the lives of every Second Kage across the five nations.
What was left behind was not just devastation, but deep, festering hatred.
One by one, the smaller nations that had existed since the Warring States Period were swallowed up, absorbed into the territories of the great powers. With their homelands gone, countless samurai were cast adrift.
Some fled to the Land of Iron. Many more became wanderers, unable to find purpose—reduced to mercenaries, drifters, or worse, bandits who survived by killing and stealing. A few still took on work, guarding caravans or accepting the same sort of commissions ninjas once did.
At this time, a group of ronin had accepted a commission—from shinobi, no less. They despised ninja, but coin was coin.
It was the middle of the night, around two. The camp was quiet, everyone asleep except for the lone sentry at his post by the brazier. Sword at his side, the ronin slumped against the wooden frame, fighting off drowsiness.
This place was thought to be impenetrable—perched halfway up a mountain, sheer cliffs falling away on three sides, with only one narrow trail leading in. Even ninja would struggle to assault it.
No danger had come in years. The ronin's head dipped lower and lower… until sleep finally claimed him.
And then—
A black-winged dragonfly settled silently on the knot of his topknot.
A few seconds later—
Boom.
All the life force was drained in an instant, compressed together with faint spiritual energy, and transmuted into chakra.
The dragonfly died before the detonation seal even activated.
A dazzling fire erupted.
The explosion consumed the samurai in his sleep.
More blasts followed.
From the sky, Dragonflies descended like rainfall—every step a streak of light.
Meteor-like bursts ignited across the camp, scattering brilliant fireworks through the night.
Explosions, screams, and panicked shouts mingled into a single cacophony, boiling like water in a pot.
The flames roared like hellfire, black smoke twisting upward into the sky.
The startled warriors stumbled from their tents, only to be struck down by falling fire. Each body turned into a burning torch before hitting the ground.
The camp was encircled, insects swarming with no path of escape.
When the last screams faded, only the flames remained.
Snow melted under the fire's touch.
Moonlight glimmered coldly through drifting smoke.
The wind howled across the battlefield, tugging at blood-soaked rags that fluttered weakly among the corpses.
The insect swarm lingered for a moment, then disappeared into the darkness.
Silence claimed the ruins. Only corpses bore witness to the massacre.
Far away, atop a ridge, a Kumo-nin lowered his telescope. His face was pale, his expression grim.
"What… what kind of jutsu is this?"
From the distance, all he could see were faint trails of light—like stardust raining across the sky—each one followed by a blossom of fire. And there were dozens of them.
"The situation is wrong. They're all dead," one ninja muttered.
A four-man squad stood together: one Jōnin, three Genin.
"Send the signal. Konoha has deployed a large force. We retreat," the Jōnin ordered.
The Genin fired a flare.
"Move!"
The Jōnin's instincts screamed at him—something was off.
For shinobi, the first encounter with the unknown was often fatal.
"Do we regroup with the others?" one Genin asked.
"Forget them! Scatter and retreat!" the Jōnin barked.
Other squads, led by experienced captains, were already moving. Better to run before encirclement closed in.
If they escaped, war could still be delayed.
But could they escape?
The four sprinted silently through the snowy forest. Suddenly, the Jōnin caught sight of a faint glow in the distance. A stream of light descended.
He reacted instantly—whipping out a kunai and hurling it. The blade struck true, piercing the streak of light. It vanished into the gorge below.
They needed another route.
But then—more lights. Dozens. They flickered like embers, wings glinting in the snow.
"Dragonflies! Captain!" a Genin cried.
The Jōnin's jaw tightened.
"Stop running. Prepare to fight."
Weapons slid free from their sheaths. Breath hung white in the frigid air.
Who was coming?
Please… let it not be a monster.
Even a veteran like him felt unease creep into his chest. Luck could not last forever.
"Set the trap."
"Yes, sir!"
They hurriedly strung wire and seals across the snow-laden pass. The wait stretched—short, yet suffocating.
Then, a figure appeared at the far end of the trail.
She walked slowly through falling snow, a young girl draped in a white hooded robe that seemed to melt into the landscape. Every step carried with it an oppressive weight, pressing into their hearts.
Just one person?
The Jōnin's expression darkened. He understood what that meant.
The worst-case scenario.
The dragonflies descended with a shrill hum.
"Move!" he roared.
But too late.
The three Genin were engulfed in fire mid-dodge, exploding like fireworks before his eyes.
The Jōnin's pupils shrank to pinpoints, then widened in horror.
Their traps were useless. Steel wires, hidden in the snow, had been woven into an almost invisible net. But the insects glided through the gaps without effort, bypassing everything.
More precise than Uchiha shurikenjutsu.
How could something as small as a dragonfly be this terrifying?
Detonation tags flared. Snow and fire burst skyward.
The Jōnin crouched low against a trembling cliff wall, drawing the long sword from his back.
Opposite him, the masked ANBU girl drew her own blade. A strange violet light shimmered along its edge.
Both waited for the flames to clear—knowing that the next breath would decide life or death.
Snow cascaded from the peaks.
The wind howled through the mountain pass.
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